A Thelma Diversion: Milo T Has Issues, or The Great Chicken Snatching of Spring 2010

Milo T Has Issues, or The Great Chicken Snatching of Spring 2010

Last anyone had heard of Nurse Milo T was when I done dropped him in London after setting him free from the Sisters, after Miss Larinda showered all her love of chickens on him. We ain't heard not a word concerning him in the month since.

The sisters decided since Luther had his niece Larinda to tend him to set him free, and off home to his trailer of chickens he went. Louise and I, we'd cleaned up his freezer of frozen terrorized chickens, so it was all clean and set to rights, spiffy and shiny. Larinda set up her little travel trailer aside of her uncle and took up residence right nicely. She even started waitressing at the Church and Bar of the Holy Spirit and Spirits during the evenings after she'd tucked old Luther into bed. Things were getting back to what passes for normal in Stink Creek, minus the shenanigans of Mamma H and the raisin and old Edna and Willa trying to stifle seniors' funtimes.

Well, we shoulda known it was only a matter of time, though, until some new tomfoolery came along and got folks to wonderin if we were a town of folks who might not be better off up at the Sisters, if ya ken me.

Chickens started disappearing from the hen houses. We'd go check on Luther, but there weren't none stuffed in his freezer; just the cute little plush ones we'd put in it for him. There weren't no additional live ones in his hen house, neither. No feathers there or at the crime scenes. Chickens were just raptured right on up out of there. No prints. No tracks. No nothing.

It twere a considerable mystery, and one that built slowly, busy as we all was with trying to shut down the Ladies Committee for the Glorification and Edification of Stink Creek. Bunch of dress-suited old biddies intent on spoiling everyone's fun. So, Louise and I, when I could find Louise, have been considerably busy. And Louise must have something going on the side, cuz everytime I turn around, she ain't nowhere to be found, dang it all. Leaving me with Mamma H to tear into the nemeses. And the shame of it is, Mamma H has taken to sporting black leather and lace, and I'm right embarrassed to be seen with her at times, never mind the raisin and his naked ass cheeks apeekin out his leather chaps. Losing their minds, is what I'd think, if they weren't toothless grinning fools about messing with people.

So, there we were with a couple chickens disappearing by the night, and weird sounds and lights coming from the woods. Mamma H and the raisin terrorizin people with their parts. Edna and Willa being right pains in the asses, exceptin it was keeping Willa sufficiently distracted that she weren't appearing on folks' porches in the wee hours of the morning anymore, so that was a bonus, as far as we were all concerned. Luther and Larinda were swearing up and down that they had nothing to do with the chicken disappearances. It had gotten to be a serious Sunday dinner pain in the ass, having to make do with frozen chickens from the little market instead of the fun of being the one to stay home from church to get that chicken ready for eating. Lord, it was an easy excuse to avoid watching the pastor stay drunk through most of the service (part of the problem with having a church and a bar in one is that the services tend to be a fair bit heavy on the libation side). It makes for interesting services, I'll grant, and beats the hell out of our remaining traditional church that the Ladies Committee attends. Louise and I, we got ourselves kicked out of that church on account of our reading materials. Instead of bringing the good book, we'd take to bringing things like Christopher Hitchen's God is not Great or Sam Harris's books and we'd sit there and read em through out the service. Hee, well, plucking a chicken ended up being more fun.

See, Sunday dinners in Stink Creek are a community affair, whether you go to church or not, and we all meet at the main square for fried chicken. Now, with our chickens coming up missing, we were getting mighty unhappy. There's a world of difference in a fresh chicken deep fried and one of them frozen cluckers. Weren't enough beer or Boone's to keep the townfolk happy, and pretty soon, nobody was even looking at Mamma H and the raisin anymore.

I was appointed by the mayor to work with the Sheriff and his one deputy to get to the bottom of the whole mess, especially when this past Saturday night the little market was robbed of all its frozen cluckers. We had to eat hotdogs yesterday, and the townspeople were besides themselves. So, last night, the sheriff, sweet old man that Mamma H had affairs with some thirty years ago, so we're on friendly terms, and his one-eyed deputy, who we call Sharp, for sharpshooter, and I we divvied up the town and went on the prowl around dark last night.

Me, I thought on all them noises we'd been hearing in the woods and them weird lights. Now, truth be told, Stink Creek is low on crime and fairly high on the woo, ifn ya know what I mean. So, even though those lights and noises had been going on for a couple weeks now, they was all too big a chickenshits to check it out. Not me, though. I had my raccoon, Trusty, with me (the old one ran off a few months ago, so I replaced him with this new one, who's leash trained), and I set to watching for the lights.

I had me some of my Wild Turkey, of course, cuz Louise was missin again, and Trusty ain't big on talking. Around about midnight, the woods lit up some and some weird chanting noises started up. I reckoned I had me a bit of a walk ahead, so I had on my good boots, and I had my 12 gauge, just in case we had us some real satanics like the folks in town were thinking, and off I set.

Now, there weren't much of a moon to guide me, and Trusty was being a pain the ass, and the Wild Turkey had me less than sturdy on my feet, but I was bound and determined to get to the bottom of this, so on into them woods I marched. By the time I got close to the lights and the sounds, I could make out bits of the chant and I could hear chickens. It was a right racket, for sure. A cacophony of clucks and a high pitched screeching sound from a man.

I broke through into the clearing where a huge fire was burning. There were cages and coops all around the circle, full of all the missing chickens and in a mound by the fire were Saturday night's frozen chickens being tossed onto the bonfire. And the man ascreeching? Well, he was dressed in a chicken outfit, and had his face painted in war paint and he was a dancin round that fire, whirlin around and throwing them chicken packets into it. He was chanting that nevermore would chickens be eaten. Some nonsense about them being the gods on earth and to be revered. I stopped short and yelled out a loud, what the hell! The chicken man stopped midsqueek, whirled around and revealed himself to be our Milo T, who I'd last seen a month ago when I dropped him off.

He dropped the chicken pack, backed up and set his tail feathers on fire. I had to drop the shotgun, the Wild Turkey, the raccoon's leash, and haul my fat ass over and put Milo T out. Damn fool. I marched his ass down to my trailer and into my truck, letting him take the wheel and we drove on up to the Sisters, where I sure as hell won't be breaking him out anytime soon. I like me my fried chicken is what I'm saying.

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